


Everybody's Got a Weakness

by Darling_Pretty



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gun Violence, because i'm disney trash let's face it, but not really, hercules au, i mean TFA is practically a Hercules retelling anyway, leviathan peggy, sort of Hydra Peggy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-07-15 02:08:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7201835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darling_Pretty/pseuds/Darling_Pretty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Within hours, she was on an airplane and no longer herself. Margarita Karpov was no more. She was and always had been Margaret Carter, known to friends and family as Peggy, born in Hampstead, England. Her family had perished in the Great War. She was an agent of the Strategic Scientific Reserve and she’d been assigned to help recruit the best and brightest in order to determine the first human subject for the project known as Rebirth."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red

She had once loved the color red. When she was little, her father had scrounged up enough money for red hair ribbons and presented them to her. 

“For my littlest pearl,” he’d said with a proud grin. Her brother had pouted. Papa had always liked her more, even if he loved Mikhail just as much. She had worn the ribbons every day to school, shining proudly in her hair. Mama and Papa had always believed in the power of education.

They were dead now. Nothing more than red spilled across the snow. She hated the color red.

* * *

She was older now. She’d blossomed into a beautiful young woman, she was told. She didn’t like to look in mirrors. There was always red slashed across her lips- it was _alluring_ , her teachers said.

She had different teachers now. They were nothing like the teachers of her childhood. They did not encourage or instill hope. They beat her when she was wrong and stripped her of her regular speaking voice. They taught her seven different languages and her hand was hit with a switch if she spoke any of them with even the slightest deviation from the natural accent. She was used to it by now.

Her first night at the school, she had curled up into a ball on the hard pallet that served as her bed. She was beaten for that too. Beaten until her back was crimson with her own blood. The housemother had a bit of red on her face; that was hers too.

* * *

She was older still. She was no longer beaten and she had killed. It was lucky that school had beaten any trace of religion out of her once Mama and Papa had died—that was fuzzy too now. Blood on fresh snow but surely they had died for the greater good, the Cause.

She was lethal now. A weapon and nothing more. Missions were given and completed. She gave the men she killed, powerful men, very little thought. Her red lipstick was worn as a badge of honor.

There were other men who she wasn’t ordered to kill. She seduced them, wormed her way into their lives. She made herself their mistress- most of them had wives and children. She took them to bed, made them feel young again. Men would tell her anything if they could only imagine she might come back for another round.

It was her specialty; her superiors praised her, inferiors came to her for advice. Her body was a small price to pay for state secrets.

She rarely thought of home anymore; in fact, she scorned the idea. They’d taken that from her along with her childhood.

A trained killer, a trained seductress, with no conscience. That was what they wanted her to be and that was almost what she was, if not for a hit gone awry.

Red splashed across the snow- it wasn’t supposed to be this way. Poison was her usual order of the day, until it proved unsuccessful. It was unsuccessful here.

She had extracted the information they wanted, of Erskine’s defection to the United States, of the plans they had for the serum; there was no reason to kill him but the order came anyway.

Red splashed across the snow. She was gone before there were witnesses, but not quickly enough to miss the cries of a new widow and a little girl asking her papa to wake.

She’d done the same thing once, hadn’t she? Had she? Was that her? There was her brother. He pulled her away. He always was more practical. She’d hidden her face in his shoulder. Hadn’t she? 

Her memories were shattered, confused and broken. She knew nothing except this: no longer did she want to do this.

* * *

She could not run. They would find her. She could not end her life. She wanted to live. But she did not want to kill anymore. In her bunk at night, she pulled out a small black journal, the one luxury she was allowed. She began to fill it with names, with what she could remember of those she’d ended or ruined. It had been found before; she was allowed it because she had claimed it as a trophy, a way of keeping her head held high. It was not a trophy. It was her shame.

She was called in for another meeting, another briefing. She refused to go. Let them kill her. Let them do what they wished. She would not kill again.

Unceremoniously, she was yanked from her bed and dragged to the chamber. She did not fight but she certainly not help.

“You’re disappointing me.” Her handler spoke in Russian, her mother tongue.

“I won’t kill anymore,” she spit.

“You don’t know what is being asked of you.”

“I won’t do it. Whatever it is. I am done.”

His smile wasn’t a smile and she’d have shivered if she hadn’t been trained to suppress all emotion. “You will take this assignment and thank me. I have been kind to you. I have kept you safe, made you what you are.”

“I don’t want to be anymore.”

He slapped her across the face and she knew her cheek was red with his fury. Her pale skin showed marks easily; it had always kept her from being too badly beaten- no one wanted permanently soiled goods. She stood tall.

Her handler nodded to the men behind her. Two of them left. “You _will_ take this assignment because you are the best we have and I ask it of you.”

“No.”

“Bring him in.”

She turned and her stomach dropped. She might not have her memories, but the man who was dragged in was unmistakable and she’d forgotten him until now. Man was perhaps too kind a word; he’d been beaten within an inch of his life. But his eyes lit up when he saw her. “Margarita.”

“Mikhail!”

The depth of emotion welling up in her surprised her. She’d thought emotion had been trampled out of her long ago. But she had to protect him. She needed to.

“You will take this mission or he will suffer and you will watch.”

Her brother shook his head no and tried to speak. He was cuffed upside the head by a guard for his efforts.

She bowed her head. “What is my target?”

Within hours, she was on an airplane and no longer herself. Margarita Karpov was no more. She was and always had been Margaret Carter, known to friends and family as Peggy, born in Hampstead, England. Her family had perished in the Great War. She was an agent of the Strategic Scientific Reserve and she’d been assigned to help recruit the best and brightest in order to determine the first human subject for the project known as Rebirth.


	2. Trust

Chester Phillips did not like her at first. She could hardly blame him; he had a division to run. She’d have hated having a stranger dumped into her lap in his place. But that didn’t make her job any easier.  
Phillips was made of stern stuff, not the type she could take to bed and gain his trust. She suspected that if there was a Mrs. Phillips somewhere on base she was very secure in their relationship. His eye would never wander, never stray. It was annoying. But Peggy had to hand it to him; he hated her because she was a nuisance until proven otherwise, not because she was a woman. She could respect that.

Peggy (she thought of herself as Peggy now; Margarita was no longer) did always love a challenge and gaining the trust of the higher ups on the base did seem to present one. Slowly, she circled him, learning what to say, what to suggest. She’d have to gain his respect before his trust. And Chester Phillips respected anyone who planted themselves in the face of his anger or disapproval and held their ground. So that was who Peggy Carter became. She began to speak up in meetings, give good tactical advice. When he glared, she stared back, serene and unbothered. Slowly, he started taking her advice. She knew she had him when he gruffly clapped one rough hand on her shoulder after a meeting and walked off.

Still, she didn’t realize just how great a job she’d done until he surprised her in the record room. “Carter, my office, ten minutes.”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.” He liked her for efficiency not for long speeches.

Peggy was sitting in his office exactly nine minutes later. She crossed her legs; the move usually had men salivating, looking her over. Phillips just crunched an apple. And that had Peggy salivating; fresh fruit was a rare treat.

“Sorry, skipped lunch,” was the explanation.

She shrugged. It was no skin off her nose if he wanted to eat in front of her. “You wanted to see me, sir?” The British accent was becoming easier and easier to maintain the longer she used it. That was how it always went.

“I assume you’re up to speed on what we’re doing here.”

“Project Rebirth. Yes.”

“We’re about to start the selection process. Stark assures us he’s ready with the facility and Erskine has seen tremendous progress with the formula. We’re almost ready for the next step.”

“Sir?”

“I want you on the front lines of this, Carter.”

She stayed quiet. Silence was sometimes just as a powerful a weapon as seduction when it came to making men talk.

“It means an increase in your duties. More work. No more money. A lot of people wouldn’t think it was worth it.”

“What exactly does the work entail?”

“We’ll give you a list of what you’d be looking for in the candidates. You’d be in charge of recording any signs of those qualities. Both physical and mental. You’re good at reading people.”

Her lips twitched up. He had no idea. “I suppose so.”

“So?”

She knew this was what she was meant to do and nodded with a smile. “I’ll do it. Thank you, sir. It’s an honor.”

* * *

 

Within a week, Phillips had her run ragged. It was as if gaining his trust made it even harder to gain his approval. But she managed. The recruiting process itself was almost done and she worked closely with Erskine to ensure that she knew what to look for.

Peggy might even say she liked the German, if she liked anyone at all. He was a funny little man and she could tell that losing his country had shaken the man. It was something she could relate to in a way. She’d lost her home too, once. Her memory was faulty and she didn’t know when, but home was always a word tinged with loss.

Honesty. Loyalty. Compassion. Empathy. These were the things she was supposed to be looking for in the candidates, according to the doctor. Phillips wanted strong and obedient. Erskine wanted “qualities beyond the physical.” Peggy was inclined to agree with him, though what did she really know?

Working on an army base was different than anything she’d experienced. Peggy was used to being ogled, but she was usually a solitary operative. And trying to be ogled, if she were perfectly honest. The longer she spent on the base, the more she found she didn’t like it. She was more than a piece of meat, more than her body. She was her mind too.

Which wasn’t to say that she didn’t indulge a few of them; even if she didn’t particularly like them, her body certainly did. Besides, the revolving door nature of the camp allowed her to not worry about any possible repercussions; she’d never see most of them again once they shipped out. She sought certain men out. Men who could be trusted not to spread lies about her, but not quite so gentlemanly that they’d be hesitant to find themselves in her bed without much preamble. The arrangement worked well.

Near enough to their camp was a bar, built to cater to soldiers obviously. The alcohol wasn’t good but they poured enough to make it worth it. Peggy frequented the place at least once a week. It was warm inside, cozy and less terrible than the world outside. The men were nervous and often drank too much. She sat at the bar in the corner and watched the show. Not often was she noticed, but when she was, it was easy enough to get a free drink or two.

“Hey, doll.”

It was a line she heard too often in too many situations. The opener to a dance she was all too familiar with, nearly a cliché at this point. But the speaker was handsome and his lips looked like he could do sinful things with them. She turned to face him, eyebrow quirked. Peggy Carter believed in making her conquests work for it. She waited for him to speak again; she knew he would. She’d make an assessment based on how he handled the situation.

“Your drink’s almost empty.”

She looked down. He was correct. She rattled the glass. “So it would seem.”

“Top you off?”

“If you must.”

“What’re you drinking?”

“Whiskey. Neat.” His eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly. “Is there a problem?”

“Nothin’, just… A girl who looks like you, drinking a drink like that.” He exhaled. “It’s surprising. Not in a bad way.”

“I like to stand out.”

He gave her a once over. “You sure do.” Signaling the bartender, he ordered them both a round.

“When do you ship out?” she asked.

“Two days.” He had that look they all got; that fear of the unknown.

Peggy took pity on him and stuck out her hand. “Agent Peggy Carter,” she introduced herself. “Might as well know who you’re drinking with.” His hand was already lightly resting on the small of her back; she knew where this was leading.

“Sergeant James Barnes.”

Red lips curled into smile and she took a sip of her drink, crimson nail tapping a slow beat against the glass.


	3. Weakness

It was another week before she saw the recruits for Erskine’s experiment. She hadn’t heard from her handlers in a month, but she knew they were always watching. Always ready to step in if she stepped out of line. She’d become accustomed to it; some of her classmates had graduated and been neutralized within the month for failing their missions or not performing to standard. She refused to be the next one.

There were thirty recruits in all, divided up into smaller groups. Peggy could immediately tell which men had been selected by Phillips and which by Erskine. Phillips’ choices were tall and tan, muscular. They’d signed up for the army or had been drafted, but the fact remained that the army would have taken all of them. Erskine’s choices were not as numerous, nor as virile. They were short, often 4F. She read the files of every candidate. Erskine’s candidates, more often than not, had at least three or four ailments. She did not meet them yet. Not until Phillips and Erskine had formed their assessments. Peggy was to select her own candidate or one of theirs.

“This is the one.”

Peggy looked up from the file she was reading just as Erskine dropped a new one onto her desk. She picked it up immediately, studying it. “How do you know?”

“I just do. He is it. There are… possible consequences of this experiment. The candidate must fit the specifications precisely.” The way Erskine jutted his chin out gave an ominous sort of knowing to his statement. Peggy tilted her head. “The serum… _amplifies_ what is already there. There must be no question of where his heart or mind lies.”

“If you know already, what am I here for?”

“Phillips will be focused on the physical. But the physical is not what concerns me, Agent Carter. The physical is inconsequential. I have known you for months now and you have a quality that I need. You have a way of getting to the heart of a subject. You must do this for the recruits, get into their hearts, back up my assessment if you feel my own is correct. Or perhaps tell me that I am wrong. I value your own opinions.”

It was a sentence that Peggy had never heard before but she had no time to dwell on it, for Erskine continued. “We must get this right, Agent Carter. You have Phillips’ ear—you will ensure we are successful in choosing the appropriate candidate.”

Peggy bowed her head. “You flatter me, doctor.”

Erskine made a dismissive noise that would have been rude from anyone else. “No, no. I have seen your own heart, Agent Carter, from the way you carry yourself. You have the heart of a lion. I know you will make the right choice. When it comes down to the wire, you will make the right choice.”

He reached out and patted her hand, but his gaze held a certain amount of sadness, his words a certain foreboding. Peggy pulled her hand away. Something about Erskine unsettled her. His gaze was piercing.

Looking down at the file, she pursed her lips. “Steve Rogers, hm? Alright, I’ll see what I can do.”

\------

Private Rogers’ group didn’t come before her until three days after her meeting with Erskine. In that time, Peggy Carter had familiarized herself with the other men and the amplification idea that Erskine had spoken of. She saw firsthand the casual coldness that was present in nearly all the typical soldiers. It bordered on cruelty and she could imagine the ways in which having such power within their hands might corrupt the men. 

It was tiresome, dealing with these men over and over again. They were always rather incredulous to find a woman in front of them, but Peggy did her best not to hold that against them; the military _was_ notoriously regimented after all, and they didn’t often see women at all, let alone above them.

She singled Private Rogers out of the crowd immediately. It wasn’t hard, he was a head shorter than every other man there. But when she came into view, he stood at attention and Peggy was pleased to note that his gaze stayed very firmly on her face. She was a beautiful woman, she wouldn’t deny it, and usually even the men she found who respected her authority gave her a once-over. Not Private Rogers. His eyes followed her face.

The same couldn’t be said for some of his companions. Immediately one the men began to question her accent. Peggy pursed her lips. Impetuous man, but nothing more than an annoyance. She laid him out flat in mere moments, to Phillips’ gruff approval. Peggy glanced over and she could have sworn she saw the flash of a smile on Steve Rogers’ lips.

She liked him already.

\------

The question came near midnight, long after she should have been sleeping. She was afforded private quarters here because of her sex. It worked well for those moments when the typewriter she ostensibly used to compile Phillips' notes began typing of its own volition. It had been disconcerting once. It was not now.

_Target acquired?_

The writing was in Russian and her brain needed a moment to go over the letters. Peggy sat chewing on her lip. Mikhail’s face, bloodied and battered, sprung into her mind’s eye. Her handler was watching this conversation she was sure.

_Awaiting final decision_ , she typed out carefully with measured keystrokes. She paused again before typing. _Next steps?_

The answer came fast, too fast.

_Seduce. Ascertain weaknesses. Destroy._

\------

Little girls who grew up to be assassins were not allowed many outlets for their emotions. To be a good pupil and a good weapon were both to quash any small emotion or feeling, for anything could be a distraction. Anything could be used against you when it came down to it.

The only method of relief that Peggy had ever found to work, at least within the confines of her schooling, was to viciously destroy whatever she could get her hands on. At school, she’d worked her frustrations out on the opponents she’d faced in training. Here, she was confined to inanimate objects. Still, she at least had access to the training supplies for the men. A dummy would have to suffice.

She worked up a good sweat, adrenaline pumping, the blood rushing in her ears as she nearly bruised her knuckles punching the bag. As she punched, she tried to drown out the thoughts in her head. She didn’t want to do this anymore. She didn’t want this to be her life. She was so tired of bringing only destruction. But they had Michael. They had Michael and she had to do what she could to keep him safe or die trying.

She spent far longer than she should have there. Exhaustion leached into her bones and she knew she’d be sore the following morning. It was satisfying, but she’d need a shower before bed and it was getting late, so she hit the showers quickly.

Her hair was still wet as she walked back to her quarters. The camp was quiet, few people milling about. Peggy didn’t mind; she liked being alone.

Someone else’s boots crunched the dirt behind her; she turned. The private she’d knocked to the ground earlier in the month was behind her. He had a distinctly unpleasant leer that suggested he’d been enjoying the way her issued pants clung to her rear far more than she’d like. She narrowed her eyes.

“Your majesty,” he greeted her.

“Agent Carter,” she corrected. He jogged to match her pace. She felt annoyance begin to put pressure between her eyes.

“Thought you an’ I could-”

“I don’t socialize with men under me.”

“Nobody said I had to be under you. Whatever’s good for you.”

She probably should have seen the innuendo coming from a mile away.

Peggy kept walking. Mostly she could ignore the passes she didn’t appreciate or want to entertain. It usually worked; the men didn’t tend to press her too much, especially since she clearly had pull with Phillips. This one- Hodge, that was his name- didn’t seem to have the same sense of self-preservation. No, he, in fact, dared to reach out and put his hand on her hip, arm around her waist.

Hodge’s wrist yielded with a satisfying snap as she yanked it away from her body. He cried out. Then he was flat on his back, Peggy’s heel pressing his throat, steely gaze meeting his own terrified one. She pushed back the hair from her eyes, breathing hard. “The next time you touch me, you won’t have a hand. Understood?” She pressed her foot down just a little harder.

He nodded as eagerly as he could, still cradling his arm. He practically ran to medical when she let him up.

Peggy was breathing hard as she walked away. The world was spinning, noises too loud. Every step she took crunched the dirt beneath her feet.

No one would touch her. Not unless she wanted it.

Not anymore.

“Agent Carter?”

She looked up. Steve Rogers’ hair had fallen into his eyes, making him look even younger. Her stomach roiled.

“Private Rogers, I’m in a bit of a hurry, I’m afraid.”

“I just… you look pale. You sure you’re good?”

How easy it would be to collapse, to admit even just a fraction of the story. She straightened her spine. “I’m just fine, Private, thank you for your concern.”

She didn’t miss the way the corners of his lips pulled into a worried frown before she retreated into her tent.


End file.
